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A challenge to Dave (Blitzballer)
06.02.04, 16:59:22
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Post #1 (permalink) |
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| Up for another battle between Sarakon and Rekka? You can make the first post if you're game, I'll be using the new Sarakon bio, it should be on here I think. He's not quite as you remember him, but it's all good. |
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Bastard
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The world had been plunged into an age of chaos and destruction. Father, mother, brother and sister turned on one another. The rivers ran red with the blood of many slain innocents, caught up in a struggle between two beings whose journey would not end until the other had been dealt with. Forests and beautiful flowers had withered and died, never to be seen again. The sunlight never beamed upon the ground, as an abhorrently evil atmosphere surrounded the planet. The foul minions of Evil- Orcs, goblins and the like vastly outnumbered courageous farmers and villagers. Yet the mindless fodder that over ran the world was but a whisper in the maelstrom that was coming. Behind this madness, with machinations and schemes in mind, lay one figure. Entire legions had roused themselves in order to quell this man, to become the hero's that would vanquish the Darkness. They met swift deaths. Rekka saw himself, as he once were, among these legions- a pitiful figure indeed. He was trembling before the awesome presence, whose mere aura threatened his mortal life. Rekka's fingers trembled around the basic sword of the army, his only defence against this onslaught. Friends he had grown up with lay strewn around him. He gave up the fight, he could not have hoped to slay such a person. The last vision he saw was a mighty blade arching its way for his throat.
Rekka woke with a jolt. Cold beads of sweat trickled down his forehead onto the floor. He felt a stinging sensation around his neck and moved his right hand to feel it. Perhaps he had slept awkwardly. His nightmare was over for now. It had been recurring for the past week or so. Deny it as he might, there was a connection between the two. He had fought with his nemesis twice. He had answered a call to defeat a legendary opponent in a Coliseum. Rekka was not ready at all He had died this first time- he had been similar in stature to the pitiful being he saw in his nightmare. Oddly this was not the end of his existence. He would find out later why. The second battle was altogether different. This time Rekka had been a match for his opponent- who had taken the fight to Rekka's ground, a holy place sacred to Rekka known as the Temple of Light. His tormentor revealed to Rekka his lineage- the power that flows through his veins. It is this power that this foul being wants. With it, the nightmares will come true one day.
He heard the sound of footsteps shuffling outside the door. Various grunts and guttural utterances alerted him to the fact that it was no friend. The smell of fire greeted his nostrils as he quickly gathered his belongings. As he crouched under the windowpane, a volley of arrows were sent through it- they were alight. Fire licked up the walls, the carpet- smouldering everything in its path:
It begins
Rekka thought to himself, as his determination to blot this stain from the land grew as strong as ever. He quickly peered through the shattered window and saw four Orcs, cackling in glee. Rekka's wooden door crumbled as the flames fed its fury. A gust of wind blew through the wide opening, as smoke filled the room. Rekka would meet these foes head on. He ran through the opening and encountered the Orcs. For a mindless bunch, they showed initiative. They quickly surrounded Rekka, in a diamond formation, shifting from side to side. Rekka's hands grasped Vaporil's handle in its sheath and waited, positioning himself with his left foot slightly forward pointing towards the horizon and his right foot behind him, pointing to a ninety degree angle.
The Orc ahead of him emitted a furious roar and jumped towards him, grasping its metal sword as it did so. Rekka allowed a smile to cross his face, as he withdrew his sword from its sheath, bringing it from a low bottom right position, towards an upper left cut. It met the torso of the Orc, cutting deep and well. Black blood spurted forth, gushing its vital life fluid everywhere. The Orc fell upon the ground and did not move. Two Orcs advanced upon him, one from each side- also grasping rudimentary metal swords:
I cannot deal with them both
He reached into his robe and produced three shruiken. The intention was to injure at least one, before dealing swiftly with the other to buy time. With his left hand across his torso, he let fly, and as he flicked his wrist outwards, he had no time to aim accurately. He saw one star fail miserably, as it thudded into a nearby tree, one entered the thigh with a glancing blow and as he pirouetted to meet the other Orc, the last star embedded itself into the left-hand wrist of the Orc. It howled in anger as it dropped its sword.
Now to deal with-
As he pivoted round to greet the onrushing Orc, it was upon him. The Orcs neck was bulging as it strained to arch the blade towards Rekka. Rekka tried to block the blow with Vaporil, but the position he had was weak. Vaporil cushioned it somewhat. Yet it fell to the floor, released from Rekka's poor grip as the Orc blade skewered him in the lower right quadrant. The pain was excruciating, as Rekka was penetrated. The gaping wound releasing a jet of crimson red blood that splattered upon the face of the Orc. Horrifyingly, the Orc licked its lips with glee, as it withdrew the blade from Rekka, causing even more damage. It brought the sword to its lips and with its tongue, licked from blade to hilt as Rekka dropped to the floor. He was an open target and the Orc saw this. It turned up its sword, so that the hilt of the blade met its eyes, and the blade pointed towards Rekka. It envisioned the coup de grace it would give this human:
“You’ll go no further”
These words resounded in the ears of Rekka, and despite the pain, alerted him to something bigger than what was happening. Spurred on by this new realisation, the pain did not matter. As the blade arched towards his heart, he withdrew his dagger Xanthi from his robe with his right hand, and with all his remaining strength arched it towards the neck of the Orc. Whether it was fate or destiny, the Orcs motion wavered, its conviction broke. Xanthi buried itself within the neck of the beast, piercing and ripping its flesh. The Orc flailed its arms, desperately in a poor attempt to stop the inevitable. It eventually succumbed as a torrent of its blood constantly sprayed forth- its precious life fluid draining. It collapsed to the floor, its eyes bulged- transfixed forever.
A cry of panic greeted his ears as the last remaining Orc, floundered in desperation. It was hurt, injured and seen three of its kin slain. It dropped its sword and fled for the hills.
Rekka could recuperate for now. Since fighting those epic battles, he had been training and waiting. Waiting ‘til their paths would cross once more. Yet no one had pushed him the way he had been. He had been out of practice, learning of his past- preoccupied with history than the present. As he struggled to his feet, sheathing Vaporil in its scabbard, and removed Xanthi from the Orcs neck, he made his way to the Temple of Light. His wounds would be tended there and sanctuary found.
Over the next few months the priests saw Rekka become more withdrawn as he immersed himself in its library. Between training and sleeping, the past was all he seemed to care about. One day, he emerged from the library with an anxious, almost worried look. The priests enquired but got no response, except one:
“I must find him”
As Rekka departed with haste from the Temple, a quizzical priest saw but one book left on a table. It pages were open. A simple paragraph was all that was on the page:
The Seeds of Illmater will bring ruin and destruction on the world ‘til One remains. Yet even when One does prevail, He will appear to stop the line. He is unbeatable; no mortal hands may slay him. The One named Rekka shall meet this foe, and the destiny and fates of all the worlds hangs in the balance as the outcome will decide what will come to pass |
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Quote:
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Quoth Albel Nox:
Imho? it's emo, douche.So if you're going to call me emo do it right.not imao, ihmo, or imo, but EMO.
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Days turned into weeks and weeks soon turned into months and though Sarakon’s frantic search stretched on and on and though he toiled hard night and day looking for something, anything to point him in the right direction, he made little progress. It wasn’t a huge surprise to Sarakon that the tit bits of information he attained when asking the various people of the realms about Heretic were largely useless, most in the mortal plane were blissfully unaware of the demon blade’s existence and those that had heard of it knew only vague tales of far away Kingdoms and merciless tyrants. Even the beings that inhabited the other major planes, the ones known as heaven and hell, seemed to know very little although they were at least far more well informed about the nature of the blade and it’s history but still the information he gathered was, for the most part, utter crap; stories of a terrible dark knight defeated by the forces of light for the most part. It was as if they’d forgot all about him during his hiatus from pursuing the revival of the Tarronian Empire,
Perhaps,
He thought to himself,
all these stories are wishful thinking on the part of these people, perhaps they choose not to know anything about me or Heretic. Or perhaps they genuinely don’t know anything.
But it seemed hard to imagine that even the most knowledgeable people in the heaven and hell realms would be totally clueless, surely someone somewhere must have seen that distinctive blade with its grotesque hilt, crafted of human bones and adorned with the crest of the Tarronian nation. Surely someone would have felt the true essence of the blade, even if it only caused a passing chill to run through their body.
But no one seems to know a thing; it’s as if Heretic has vanished totally. But I know that blade, I wielded it for long enough, too long, to know it cannot be destroyed. It possesses an indomitable will and a truly insatiable blood lust; it would not allow itself to simply disappear. So though I can’t feel its presence any more, I know it’s still out there. And I can’t allow such power to rest in anyone’s hands, the consequences of Heretic’s influence was bad enough when it poisoned my mind, if the blade were to come into the possession of someone with a weaker heart and soul then the blade would dominate them completely and whatever carnage may ensue would be my responsibility…But I was sure it was safe within the confines of the Nexus.
Which meant whoever did take the blade from it’s resting point was a walker of the realms, and, if he or she was more skilled in their ability to travel between the worlds then perhaps Heretic was now in a realm Sarakon couldn’t reach, but surely he would be able to reach out to the spirits within the blade through the spectral nexus wherever it was.
Could Heretic be hiding itself from me? Or could it be the work of its new master?
Whatever the case, Sarakon knew that mere speculation wouldn’t get him anywhere; he needed to pick up the pace a little. Still, while wandering the plain and empty dirt paths between towns here and there he couldn’t help but let his mind drift to thoughts of Heretic, and of how he’d fare if he did manage to hunt down the sword and the being that stole it. The odds seemed against him, he decided to worry about that later.
Right now he was headed into the town of Lucille, a large yet primitive settlement in comparison to the surrounding communities, the nearest of which being Birmingham; a technological wonderland with a thriving economy, home for all the rich go getters on the continent. But where Birmingham’s citizens resided in towers constructed of metal and concrete, surrounded by the modern conveniences of that particular planet, the people of nearby Lucille lived in little wooden shacks. Whereas the people of Birmingham worked for money to buy food, those in Lucille did not work for money, they toiled out on their fields growing their own crops for food and the rest of their time was spent in prayer.
Lucille was regarded as holy ground, Sarakon wasn’t quite sure why but imagined it had something to do with a story about an angel or something equally stupid. Fascinating as that might be though he wasn’t there for that, the citizens of the holy town were, surprisingly enough, holy men. Sarakon had dealt with holy men before and despite being zealous idiots, they generally had some idea what they were talking about, after all they did make it their business to confront the so called darkness of the world. If they were worth their weight in salt they would at least know something about Heretic, otherwise it was pretty clear they were doing a pretty terrible job.
The town was in sight in the distance, a number of figures appeared to be out in the fields sowing seeds, some of them wandered off into the surrounding forest possibly to hunt or gather fire wood although judging by the dark storm clouds that rolled over head propelled by the strong wind it looked like they wouldn’t be having a fire today.
Sarakon hesitated for a second, pausing in mid stride as the wind caressed his form.
Something feels amiss
He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but a familiar presence seemed to be upon him. But he couldn’t worry about it now; the Heretic situation was his only priority now.
He turned and scanned the area around him briefly with his cold white eyes, satisfied that no one was around he resumed his march towards Lucille.
[ooc - The inspiration hit me today and came out of nowhere, I scrapped that other post I was writing and just wrote this one. Good luck Dave, let's rock xD] |
Last edited by Lennon Legend : 06.08.04 at 08:39:29.
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The Seeds of Illuminar will bring ruin and destruction on the world
This line constantly repeated in Rekka's mind. His quest, his entire life, had been in service to purging the land of so-called Evil. Yet here, written on parchment from ages gone, was an explicit allusion to the terror that could be wrought from one man. Himself. His over-pious nature, his constant taunts of being ‘Holier than Thou’ flickered through his thoughts. Even to him, they now seemed immature:
How do you define Evil? Who am I to say what is Good? I am a descendant of Illuminar but can the power that flows through my veins be for the benefit of all worlds or will it be their downfall?
Always believing the teachings of Light, never questioning its judgement, he had become a tool of it. He should have figured as much in his first real battle. He should never have entered the Coliseum that day. Yet if he had not, who is to say that the power that Rekka holds would have been his. He had felt his whole body under the control of something, or someone- a mere vessel, a conduit, for a higher power. However, Rekka was not plucked from a random line- there was a certain uniqueness that no one could have leant him. Sarakon was his opponent that day- a figure that, reflectively, Rekka had termed Evil. Their encounter obliterated the landscape and the spectators that had come for the sport. It was not all the fault of Sarakon. Rekka could not blame others anymore. His destiny, perhaps fate, was his and his alone, he had thought. Yet the history books do not lie, and for all Sarakon's bravado- Rekka had gleamed more of his true nature:
My Path to Light has darkened. If I was the naïve young samurai of old, it would trouble me. The fact that it does not show that I am aware- of who I am, No one will tell me what to do, or use me for their own schemes
He had encountered a foul Orc Hybrid named Falrog between his two encounters with Sarakon. Even this mindless Orc had prophetic words to tell him. Was it mere chance that they met, or destiny being fulfilled? After a bloody battle, where the brute strength of Falrog and the cunning and agility of Rekka cancelled each other out, again Rekka was mysteriously ‘saved’ from an ending of his life, transported to the Temple of Light, of Illuminar:
Heh….Saved? What? Should I be thankful? To be resurrected only to fall once more?
As he left the sanctity of the Temple of Light, fully recuperated from his battle with the Orcs, these questions and more resounded and reverberated in his mind. As he took one last glance at the Temple, he remembered his last battle with Sarakon- the so-called Dark Knight. It was a battle that would be left unfinished- each one called, maybe even whisked away, by the whims of the Gods. Yet it was in this battle that Sarakon revealed to Rekka the true power that lay with the samurai-warrior’s veins. Rekka was a descendant of Illuminar- ironically it was Sarakon that defeated this Holy warrior as well:
Am I to end what has been left unfinished? What will occur if I do not? Does He deserve death anymore than I do?
When he had seen, what he had read in the countless volumes of books within the library, there was only one being that held answers- Rekka had to find Sarakon. Their fates seemed strangely intertwined. As Rekka quickened his pace, he felt a sudden jolt of pain across his chest. He stopped and checked himself. A few droplets of blood were dripping down his torso from the blade that Sarakon had wielded in the Coliseum. An ordinary man would have been cleaved in two- Rekka nigh on was. The scar was a constant reminder and seemed profoundly significant that it bled now.
A stream trickled and meandered nearby. Rekka knelt by its side and applied a wet, fresh new bandage to his torso. It did not hurt, it was a minor aggravation. The blood trickled to a stop and Rekka sat in contemplation. The village of Lucille was nearby- a quiet congregation of people. It also had a few pious priests that Rekka recognised in himself- as he once was. It would be a grateful diversion to immerse himself in a village life and gather information about his target. He sat cross-legged with his right elbow resting on his thigh, and his right hand palm resting his chin:
I doubt anyone has heard of Sarakon. I have only learnt myself from hidden away texts, a small selection of his history. Is he a being that people do not want to believe exists?
He closed his eyes, as if reflecting on this. Images of his battles with Sarakon and others flashed through his thoughts. Sword strokes, axe swings, walls of fire – all flooded his memories. In the centre of it all was a figure shrouded in black, flickering into white and grey. It was an awesome presence that grew gradually bigger and more prominent. It was not Rekka. It seemed to be pointing, searching for something. In that instant the images stopped and amid the blackness and void that had filled it was a blade- he had seen it before. It was the weapon that had inflicted the scar upon him
Rekka opened his eyes and felt himself being forced backwards- as if violating some sort of privacy. He checked himself and got to his feet. Astounded by this ‘vision’, he had to make haste for Lucille. The connection was stronger- somehow he knew he would find what he was looking for there. Questions needed answering, his past had been partly hidden from him- only revealed by all creatures Sarakon. If the Gods were to forsake him in whatever confrontation that was come, Rekka was prepared.
Mysteriously, despite being midday, the sky darkened on what was the hottest day of the year so far. The Sun became obscured by storm clouds that had gathered. He could not hear birds twittering in the springtime as they usually did. He did not have the time. He saw a plume of smoke over the next hill, coming from Lucille. The farmers would be enjoying their lunches at this hour after, a morning's hard toil in the fields. In this quiet peaceful village, the destiny of Rekka would be decided. |
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Sarakon couldn’t quite shake the feeling of tension in the air even as he tentatively approached the peaceful village before him, doing his best to appear unthreatening to the myriad of holy men he passed in the fields. It was to no avail, though they tried not to show it their fear was clearly evident in the way they would scurry away as he strolled past, how they exchanged worried glances between one another. It was always those empty dead eyes that gave Sarakon away, he should have realised by now that even the most dim-witted of mortals could tell there was something not quite right about a man with eyes like that. No doubt these holy men had a greater understanding of it than that.
As he neared one of the larger huts in the village, passing other smaller ones without paying them any heed and ignoring the men that hesitantly tip toed around him with their baskets of seeds, fruit and vegetables. Again he found himself pausing in mid stride, his head snapping involuntarily round to the side to look out between two of the wooden shelters to see nothing but empty fields and forests and hills beyond it.
Sarakon frowned, that familiar presence touched his soul again, someone was out there beyond the village, and they were heading towards it.
He cursed under his breath before turning away from the field and back to the hut he had been on the verge of entering before, gently pushing the door ajar and stepping past the threshold, having to duck his head in order to fit through the doorway.
I don’t have time for this right now, I need to speak to who I can about Heretic and keep moving
He recognised the presence now, it was that choirboy Rekka. He should have known really, there weren’t many beings he’d come across with that kind of power, none that would waste their time with these zealous little monks anyway.
The two had crossed paths two times before, and neither battle had produced a clear victor; the first battle had cost both of them their lives, however Sarakon was already dead and though it was an unnecessary hardship, with Heretic at his side he managed to cheat death again, Rekka’s reappearance he couldn’t explain, and it didn’t matter anyway. Fact is he reappeared, stronger than ever and with the determined intention of vanquishing Sarakon’s “evil” from the land. While he was confident that his power and experience would be enough to deal with the boy, even without Heretic’s power, but Rekka’s crusade would only delay the safe acquisition of Heretic. Ironically he would endanger the people of the realms with his pious crusade against evil.
Best to speak to the village elder and get the hell out of here before the choirboy shows up.
Sarakon peered inside the hut that was illuminated by a single shaft of light from an opening situated overhead, casting light down onto a crude altar that stood before the wooden wall opposite Sarakon, in front of the altar were more holy men. They had been busy praying to some deity or another, but upon Sarakon’s entry they stopped immediately.
Just like the reaction I got in that pub in the “heaven” realm
One man other than Sarakon was standing, while the rest were on their knees, this man was clearly the authority figure here, the elder.
“Your eyes betray you, heathen. What business does the damned have on this holy ground?”
Sarakon was a little stunned by the elder’s boldness, but replied quickly all the same,
“There is a sword, known as Heretic or to some the demon blade. This sword houses an incredible power, a terrible power. I know because this sword once belonged to me, you can imagine what kind of carnage might ensue if it falls into the wrong hands. Well I think it already has fallen into the wrong hands, I need to retrieve it.”
The other men scurried out of the hut while Sarakon spoke to the elder, leaving the two alone as the old man reflected on Sarakon’s words.
”No man would leave the eternal Kingdom of light to return to this world, but your eyes mark you as a man who’s life has come to an end. Why would this sword be any safer in your hands, demon?”
Sarakon sighed, this was exactly why he hated dealing with these religious types, they just didn’t understand. The world’s not black white, it’s not as clear cut as good and evil, but they see one “negative” aspect and it blinds them to the truth.
“Do you know anything about the sword or not?”
Utter silence, the elder turned his back to Sarakon and resumed his prayers.
Sarakon’s temper flared for a brief moment, his fists clenched at his sides,
“Useless bastard”
He cursed, his voice raised and his anger clearly evident in his intonation. Angrily he stormed out of the hut, leaving the door ajar on his way out.
He paused again as he crossed through the centre of the town, Rekka’s presence was too near to avoid now; it seemed the boy had caught up to him.
With a sigh, shaking his head for a moment out of disappointment and disgust, he turned to face the holy crusader. |
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With each footfall bringing him closer to Lucille, Rekka’s heart resounded in his ribcage stronger at the exhilaration he felt with anticipation, and the adrenaline that coursed through his veins. A faint breeze cajoled fallen leaves on the ground, whisking them up and around and dancing them in mid air. The breeze was somehow comforting, fresh air filled Rekka’s lungs as he paced his breathing for this last run. His robe billowed in the wind, flowing behind him like a cape. His light armour of chain mail made an almost soothing ‘swish’ sound, as his right, then left foot, would meet the earth. It provided adequate protection, providing some defence against the onslaught of Orcs, goblins and the like. When he met better and stronger foes, the protection looked weak in comparison to his opponent. This negative aspect of his armour allowed his more strong characteristics, such as agility to shine through.
A well-trodden path directed his way. The farmers would use it for their carts and herd sheep and the like. Travellers would walk through Lucille on their way to more important towns- it was a mere stopgap for better and brighter things. It seemed isolated from the rest of the world, but maybe this way part of the attraction it held for its inhabitants. The architecture within Lucille was poor. Wooden shelters offered people a roof over their heads. It seemed the villagers would eat what they grow, and if it had been a good harvest season maybe they could sell fruit and vegetable, even cattle at the massive market in a bigger town. As Rekka raced past the many fields, he saw farmers ploughing at the fields with their scythes and shears- he could not hear the noise of tractors or mechanised machinery that could aid them in reaping their crops. It was lunchtime and some farmers were probably forsaking their food- maybe because they had none, maybe due to the fact that some people in the families had to go without having a certain meal in the day.
There was one building that did stand out for Rekka. It was a Temple. It was beautifully decorated, with its stain glass windows containing a multitude of colours. Stone statues and figurines adorned the roof of the building and it seemed there were marble pillars to each side of a massive wooden door. The marble was speckled with a golden tinge. As Rekka’s pace lessened, he took a look at various men, women and children clad in rags who lived in the dilapidated houses, and then looked at the religious priests, in their coloured robes made of silk, congregating by the Temple:
This Temple of Light has brought ruin to these people. These people live in squalor, yet the Priests flaunt their obvious wealth so easily. The teachings have been forgotten. There should be no inequality.
A young girl, no more than six years old, interrupted Rekka’s thoughts, tugging at his armour on his left arm. Rekka could tell she was a mute, yet her eyes told him more than he could ever have wished to know. Rekka’s demeanour wilted, his faith in his fellow man hit rock bottom, as the imploring and saddened girl’s eyes looked to him for help. Rekka crouched down, and withdrew from his pocket the money he would have donated to the church:
These people need it more.
A smile worth a thousand words broke across the young girl’s face. Tears welled up in her eyes as she bowed profusely and ran to the rest of her family, who were waiting for her a few yards away. Rekka ascended to his feet and turned back to face the Temple. This was a significant moment in Rekka’s young life. He had become a fighter; a warrior- did a life in servitude suit him anymore?
If this…THIS…is what it means to be a servant of the path of Light, it is not for me. I will find a new way. I will meet my so-called brethren- those who are of Illuminar's descendants on my own terms
As soon as he had finished these thoughts, a pain, stronger and more straining rippled around his torso- it came from the scar. As Rekka clutched his chest with his right arm, more in shock than sheer pain, the father of the little girl had come to meet him. The man had managed to hold on to Rekka before he fell on the floor. As the man helped Rekka to his feet, he was thanking Rekka for the money- revealing that it was a small fortune to him, but would help the village no end. Rekka nodded in acknowledgement, bowing as he did so. A single drop of blood dripped from under his armour onto the stone pavement. The father of the girl had seen this and despite Rekka’s protestations, took him to his home.
The farmer’s wife cleaned the wound once more. It was an irritation that would not go it seemed. The farmer enquired as to where Rekka had received such a wound. Rekka gulped down his glass of water and looked out of the window:
“A being named Sarakon, with a mighty blade no one on this earth could wield, gave me this scar in a battle at the Coliseum a while aback”
As Rekka said the name Sarakon, he could tell that this so-called farmer had heard of the name. The farmer sat down near the log fire, the embers glowing in a crimson hue, and was silent for a moment. In the next second, he looked at Rekka and quizzically uttered:
“I was at the Coliseum that day. I could not stay long but what I saw chilled me to the bone. It was as if that blade weilded Him, more than the other way round. Wait…you…You cannot be that Rekka lad by any chance? Holy Moly….You’re him all right but there's something strong within you now. I saw for my own eyes when I journeyed to the site the next day the sheer devastation, the complete obliteration of everything in the area. Nothing..NOTHING could have survived that”
The farmer quickly dashed to the window, darting a glance to the left and right. Whatever he was looking for was not there for now. He returned his gaze to Rekka:
“I have heard rumours today that a strange being has entered the village. The descriptions, obviously sketchy at best, all describe something that the village has never seen before. Look…Look out the window. See how the Priests at that…that Temple are flustered? They have been quaking in their boots ever since this morning. He is here”
Rekka thanked the woman for her aid and shook the man’s hand. The man saw a determination in Rekka’s eyes that told him not to stop him. As Rekka stood in the doorway, he turned and said:
“And I have to meet him”
With renewed vigour and strength, he couldn’t even bring himself to enter the Temple. This was the end of the line with the association. Doubts had crept in his mind, and it was not mere chance that he had found himself in Lucille. The sound of shrieking woman and children, even men, greeted his ears. It was not the sound of slaughter, it was the sound of shock- meeting with something that was different, unknown. Rekka knew he had to follow the sounds. It was coming from the centre of town, as he turned the corner of the pebble-stone path, villagers ran past him. A girl dropped her teddy bear, crying that she had lost it. Rekka knelt down and passed it her back.
After the stampede was over, a silence- so odd a sound descended on the village. It was a quiet place at the best of times. Yet this was something different. The calm before the storm. The aura, the presence that Rekka had felt in his first two meetings with Sarakon was not at all like the one he felt now. Rekka knew as soon as he turned the corner, it would be Sarakon waiting- the questions that flooded his mind as he did so was:
What has happened to this figure? I see no villagers slain. He was all too eager at the Coliseum to show his strength. Has he changed so? Can the books be wrong?
Rekka had been searching for what lay round the corner for a long time. Everything seemed to slow down for him. The crunch of each footfall as he made his way to the massive figure, although changed, in the centre of the village. He would not sneak up on this foe. There was history. It was a certain familiarity that their paths would meet once more. A cataclysmic event would occur that would change the lives of both Sarakon and Rekka- despite whoever would be the victor. Sarakon’s back was still turned towards him. Rekka would let Sarakon feel his own presence- make him turn round and face Rekka. Rekka emitted a deep breath of air from his lungs; it filled once more with a prolonged intake of air. The Time had come for Rekka to learn what power he really had. |
Last edited by Blitzballer : 06.09.04 at 18:40:52.
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06.14.04, 13:21:26
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Post #7 | | | | |
